Tue 1 Jan 2008
Happy New Year!
Posted by anaglyph under Rasputin, True Fiction
[113] Comments
I hereby declare the Annual TCA Rasputin Poetry Competition open!
(Really, why fight it?)
My dear Acowlytes! Let me offer you all the best wishes for a happy, healthy and jape-filled 2008. Let the jousting commence!
___________________________________________________________________________
If you haven’t got the faintest idea what all this is about, maybe you’d like to click here!
___________________________________________________________________________
113 Responses to “ Happy New Year! ”
Trackbacks & Pingbacks:
-
[…] we stumble flat-footed but indisputably well-endowed into 2008, China tries frantically to get Beijing ready for the 2008 Olympic Games. It is by now […]
-
[…] from his corpse shortly after he was murdered on December 16, 1916, and has gone on to enjoy notoriety in its own right. According to Madame Zora, Rasputin’s spirit has been tagging along with it on its corporeal […]
Another year has come and passed
It seemed to happen really fast
And now the time has come at last
for poems ’bout Rasputin.
The Rev pretends to be aghast
About our poems he lambastes
When in truth they’re unsurpassed
So let’s just get right too ’em.
First out the door! Happy New Year, Rev!
A midget has taken the prize
With sunglasses o’er his eyes
But I wonder if he
Is able to see
That Rasputin’s about the same size?
Disquietd in Heavn, th mad monk Rasputin said,
“Tis th worst of all indignitys I seen since I been dead,
That a little squirt who as of yet has nevr been reprovd,
Hath made it so my closest blood-relations twice removd.”
Joey: VERY nice. I think that’s my favorite of all three years. HAHAHAHA!
Th night / day is young, my dear Atlas.
Th Revrend aint chimd in yet.
T’wernt a midget mastermind that took Rasputin’s junk
No, ’twas far more wretched brute that swiped from the Mad Monk
His manly meat and dangle bobs that caused the Times to fuss
The culprit so elusive is Joey’s homunculus.
By th way …
Happy New Year, Revrend!
Yer a sport!
(*Polanskis poetick abilitys momentarily knockd offline by ‘dangle bobs’*)
searching …
searching …
searching …
(Not the homunculus!!! *weeps and staggers off to get more champagne*)
Er, Happy New Year, Reverend.
What be the rules comrade?
“Let er rip,” is my guess.
Putin said, “For return we do call,
For our symbol o freedom — thats all.
If Rasputin,” he guessd,
“Had stood facin th West,
Thered have not been no dangd Berlin Wall.”
Damn. Atlas stole my homonculus idea.
Stay tuned.
He wore some flashy glasses, the thief who took the phallus
Poised between his tiny hands, firmly grasped with malice.
He so desired entry in to the Qantas lounge
So he could sit and listen to the Strange and Charming sounds.
Rasputin had no trouble when it came to getting in
But the midget found his hopes were dashed and he was left chagrined.
His masterminded plan had failed and so the midget, lonely
Turned his heals and walked away since the lounge was members only.
Th theft in Old St. Petersburg had all th world abuzz,
And it led to such a law-enforcment tiff as e’er there was.
While fokes at th “museam” saw a little child rob it,
Th U.S. cops put APBs out for Lorena Bobbitt.
And as fer RULES, I think th rule shoud be:
You BREAK th rules till th Revrend slaps th shit outta ya.
I think the kid’s named Elliot
But maybe it’s just me
That’s not a dick that he’s got there
It’s an alien called E.T.
Much has been said of Rasputin’s demise
And the monster he bore there between his two thighs,
But there is another tale of sorrow and woe
The price paid for love by Vincent Van Gogh
Imagine the torment he must have gone through
When he chopped off his ear for his one love untrue.
So on this eve of renewal, I wish you all cheers,
and at least Rasputin still has both of his ears.
Compared wif ol Rasputins loss,
Van Goghs coud hardly match it.
Van Goghs loss calld fer just a knife,
Rasputins loss, a hatchet.
While Van Gogh’s loss we can’t compare
With Rasputin’s monster member’s fair
At least Van Gogh, if he so cared
Could cover his loss by combing his hair.
While it’s true that Van Gogh has lost one of his ears
It’s Rasputin’s condition that’s much more severe.
Van Gogh, after all, could still hear pretty good
Whereas the Mad Monk lost all his manhood.
And I’m sure that Van Gogh looked rather bizarre
But Rasputin much worse from the size of his scar.
So ask yourself truly what you’d rather be missin’
To be able to fuck or able to listen?
Rasputins loss may very well,
Have changd th way th Russian peed.
But on th outside, all seems swell,
Since just TWO pants-legs now heell need.
A kid holding a monk’s equipment for once
nice reversal Rev
It’s usually the other way around
but err enough said
When to his nightly bed
the Monk did retire
Oh gods! what visions!
what unholy knowledge
did the Devil in his ear
whisper, whisper.
He sees, as in a dream,
his most essential,
effable, ineffable,
his sacred Piece
sundered from his very body.
The Monk shakes.
He shudders in an ecstasy of loathing,
And cannot wake.
Ever before his eyes now
the vision horrible.
His Penis – hacked, pickled,
bottled, displayed, decanted,
held aloft in tiny fingers.
For this is his Hell
And in it he burns.
Happy New Year dear Reverend. May your visions be happy ones.
HAHAHAHA!
Decanted!
HAHAHAHAHA!
There once was a monk from Old Russia
Who was de-membered by folks who saw lusher
Growth on his love tree
Than on Ron Jeremy
Now it’s grafted on a midget from Prussia.
The lesson we should all attend
From thoughts exchanged between us:
If you make an homunculus
Be sure he has a penis.
For if you create your little man
And forget to make his willy
He might go out and steal one
Which could make him look quite silly
Rasputin had a giant prick,
And Putin is a giant dick.
‘Tween prick and dick,
those objects lewd,
Poor Lady Russia’s totally screwed!
If Rasputin’s prick wed
Putin the Dick-Head-
Would it the green seas incaradine,
Making it all One Red?
Then Russias fine detecktives chasd th kid to Russias bordr,
Where th case was handed ovr to th Poles in propr ordr.
But th kid eluded them and made it to th shores o France,
Where he tryd to cross th Channel wif some ballast in his pants.
—–
He slippd past Scotland Yard into th bonny land itself,
Where his short career in crime was finaly placed upon th shelf.
“Th kid was empty-handed,” said th cops, in mild shock,
“But some fokes have seen a brand new beast a-swimmin in th Loch.”
I wonder if Joey knows his link to this leaves his name and web addy in the reply part?
on the last night in December…
a midget
stole
a member
twas a dick
pickled and thick
sure to make sick
any chick
he tried to stick
with this pickled contender
Vladimir Putin cried
twas Rasputin’s own vagina-ride
a national treasure
a lifetime of pleasure
kept for good measure
that made that midget swell with pride
as he was getting ready to slide
and his woman was awaiting the slide
while she desperately tried
to makes sense of the stench of formaldehyde
um, the second slide should be glide.
HAHAHAHA!
Pickled contender!
HAHAHAHAHA!
(P.S. Yeah. Oftns th time I noticd othr fokes name & web addy in th TCA boxs when I visit. Had sompm like that happm ovr at Old Fish & Lemonade once too. I ended up inadvertantly leavin a comment there as ‘Michelle’. I felt girly fer DAYS!)
I can’t possibly competer
with all this clever meter
about the stolen peter.
So I will just say, Happy New Year Rev!
Rasputin looked down and said with a frown
“It appears that I’ve gone and misplaced it”
And feeling distraught he then had a thought
“I’ll pull from a jar my replacement.”
Laugh all you want
At the pickled man twinky
The mad monk keilbasa
The straretswurst linky
I got more nanborsht
in my little pinky
Anaglyph and Atlas and Polanski all had met up,
To discuss a poemin contest and th details of th set-up.
“Once th dick-jokes start, theres hardly any hope that they will let up,
And wif so much fun, when this years done, lets hope we all can get up.”
Rasputin tried to take a piss
But when he reached “down there”
He’d found his pal had gone amiss
Cuz all he’d grabbed was hair.
Rasputin’s dick is popular
But his reputation’s bigger
For example here’s a song about
Him sung by many blacks.
The nightwind rasps on the two rivers
And the steppes bled water cold
The ice clung in his claws
Like the spectre Testament old.
The cloak removed by carbon steely knives
The mallow blue body rended apart
The burnt off cyanide lingers in liver
The cold ice of the Red grasps the heart.
Nothing conluded by four seperate shots
The mangling of history on Rus’ black art
One lowly maid with aching reverntial rite
Saved for a cult and his daughter one part.
Mary Antoinette might want a head
Van Gogh might want an ear
But I guess we all know
What Rasputin wants
When Santa comes next year.
Marie Antoinette
and Vincent Van Gogh
Lost parts from the the top
But Rasputin below.
Though all three lost a part
As we’ve already said
‘Twas Marie and Rasputin
That both lost a head.
There once was a mad monk of Russia
Who sinned and confessed to get a rusha
But lost in the end
His closest dear friend
But now we can see his man brusha
Damn, one too many syllables.
Rasputin said, “Great God of wonder,
Please bless me, and then SUPER-SIZE me!”
But then he committd a blunder:
He said to Gods priest, “Circumcize me!”
The dick of Rasputin looks sickly
No doubt from fermenting so quickly
After all of these years
It, too, now appears
That his penis has also turned pickley.
Hey, Atlas!
Comment 41 is a friggin PRIZE!
His pal had gone amiss?
HAHAHAHAHA!
Is this your most successful post, Rev? It seems size DOES matter.
There’s no disputin’
The cock of Rasputin.
While Joey & Mike were stealing each other’s shtick, this little fucker made off with Rasputin’s dick!
Hooray! sara sue pops her cherry.
There once wuz a man named Rasputin
Who wuz ever so fond of fig newtons.
Spinoza set the fig newtons on fire
In order Rasputin’s dick to acquire,
And now Rasputin has nuthin’ fer shootin’.
Th dicknapper, brillyant and bold,
Demanded a ransom, Im told:
“Because of your need,
Ill tempr my greed,
And take half th things weight in gold.”
Rasputin is the subject of poetic repertoire
Our poems push the envelope of weird and quite bizarre.
But few things are so special as the bond that’s shared between us
Writing poems every January about Rasputin’s penis.
I keep trying to come up with something new. It’s like I’m cock-blocked.
I jumpd to this conclusion, when I did a Google search:
“It seems some friggin heathen musta vandalizd a church.”
Had I read on, Im sure th real story wouda clickd.
Th headline that I read jus said some pipe organ got nickd.
When January 1st comes ’round the Tetherd Cow’s ablaze
With poetic penile poetry that seems to go for days.
And though I’m rather fond of it and feel I must contend
I can’t help but ask myself, “Will this madness ever end?”
For what he did,
That little kid,
Shoud be put behind bars.
Hes left a world,
Where pretty girls,
Must stare at empty jars.
Each poem that is posted
makes the next harder to do
I guess we’ll have to change things up
and starting writing some Haiku.
O bulging penis.
On display within a jar.
Forever famous.
Throbbing Rasputin
On a cold wintery night
Keeps women happy
There was movement at the museum, for the word had passed around
That the dick from old Raspute was stole away
Sightings were innumerous — it must have weighed a thousand pound,
So all the eunuchs had gathered to the fray.
Please someone stop this madness.
Each post about the post gets us closer to the triple digit mark!
Grigory R.
Has a terrible scar
But nothing ‘tween his knees
It used to be there
But now it’s just bare
Cuz it blew off when he sneezed.
Is it feasible to theorize that our monk made the mistake
Of misunderstanding orders from his doc
And when given a big jar to be filled in the next room
Filled it (plainly detrimentally) with his cock?
‘The dick from old Raspute?’
Oh dear.
My gosh, the missing kerp!
Is losing gate,
At rapid state,
I hate the stealth!
The loss of wealth!
I hope they catch the perp!
I must go down to the Musee again,
to the loney cock in a jar.
And all I saw is an empty jar
Without cock to steer my eye.
The missing dick, and the naked gap
the eyes are surely seeking.
And a grey mist, on the jar’s face,
And a dickless dawn is breaking!
I never thought that I would be
Cow comment number seventy-three.
We clamor like champions, you fokes and me,
Writin poems till fingrs go limp.
Next year, they will covr this thing on TV.
Just wait till you all see th BLIMP.
I wouldn’t stop for Rasputin’s dick,
so it kindly stopped for me.
The carriage held but just ourselves,
and smelled like rotten kim-chi.
With a Rasputin show
I do not agree
I don’t think we need
Another dick on TV.
For some, its post-hollyday depression.
For othrs its, like, “Hey, whats all th fuss?”
For us, just convene th first session,
Of Rasputiners Anonymous.
Half the fun in prior years,
was the pretty Russian blond-
who stared in wonder and delight
at Rasputin’s deadly wand.
Where did she go?
We’d like to know!
Well I’ll tell you
where she may be found-
Outside “Sammy’s Cleaners”,
selling Mad Monk Wieners
for twenty-five cents a pound.
When speaking of size, you’ll be surprised,
and to believe may take all your strength-
But Rasputin’s dick is so very thick,
“Ten inches” is not the *length*…
Jeez!
I guess some guys dont need no refracktory period
When Atlas C. goes bowling, theres Rasputin among th pins.
Rasputins at his market, in th bottles and th bins.
He sees Rasputin evrywhere, so its funny when ya think,
That when he took a Rorschach test, all he seen was ink.
Everyone already knows
That Rasputin and Joey are close
In his bedroom confined
As he pumps himself blind
Singlehandedly typing his prose.
Th coments on this post coud get up into tripple digits.
Its easy to write poems about wienrs stole by midgets.
But in tackling the Rasputin thing, th poet undrstands,
Howevr many digits, you still hafta use two hands.
Th same poetick rhythm is still stuck inside my head.
I ought to write a limerick, or sompm else instead.
But back that rhythm comes, as if imposd by sompm biggr.
“Its ‘Casey At the Bat‘,” you say; and I answr, “Go figgr.”
It is so good to be alive
And come in at number eighty five.
Q: How many Raputin dicks does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: You can’t fit even one in a light bulb.
A: There’s no orifice in a light bulb.
A: Does the light bulb rule a country?
Am I missing any?
(That’s a free-verse poem in the form of a riddle)
A pickled penis
Russian, detached, and afar.
Bashful quahog? No!
OK, we are going
for triple digits??
Let the Games begin!!!
After writing all these poems
I feel I’m going dry
I’d like to keep ’em cummin’
So I’ll give it one more try.
Back in th U.S.S.R.,
That songwriting machine,
Lennon & McCartney,
Wrote “Yellowed Submarine”.
Hahahaahahaha! Joey slam dunks.
We’ve had many a slam dunk already, I think.
WOW!
Tell me THESE FOKES dint miss th whole friggin point!
It has to be said
That Rasputin dead
Now achieves notoriety
Transcending propriety
Even though he is gone
His best asset lives on,
Inspiring such strife
As it once did in life!
(And Joey, those folks plainly aren’t aware of this fact!)
In Heaven, Rasputin then bawld,
“While flatterd by these poems scrawld,
Id rest happily,
If I coud just be,
Re-memberd instead of recalld.”
Joey!!!! *rim shot!*
As I look back on all these comments, I think I end up laughin hardest at ol #70 — and it aint evn a poemski!
HAHAHAHAHA!
His staring eyes hypnotised the lovely tsarina.
As for personal hygiene, he could have been cleaner.
At gaining personal power he was very skillable.
Poisoned, stabbed, drowned, and still unkillable.
He had twenty times the charisma in one digit
Than any upstart, jar-looting midget.
For though being a Mad Monk is wrong, it’s wronger
To steal a Mad Monk’s huge and pickled donger.
Pitka and his partnr then reviewd th police report.
It said th man who took th thing was astonishingly short.
“Its Spinoza!” Pitkas partnr cryd, “That four-foot-tall pissant!”
“Not so fast, sir,” Pitka said, “That sounds much more like Kant.”
The Mad Monk’s huge and pickled dong,
Some say it’s definitely wrong,
But it makes us want to write a song.
And like the dong, so goes the song-
On and on and on and on…
Rasputin’s gone,
but his dong lives on
In a pickled, briny jar.
Alive or dead,
for a glimpse of his ‘head’
the ladies still journey
from near and far.
But surely his dong,
So thick and long,
has left us with some spark-
Of poems reputin’
The schlong of Rasputin,
we’ve hit the Century mark!
I thought the Rasputic
Po-ems would be done
But look! Here it is!
Com-ment one-oh-one.
In order to write
More Rasputin creations
I think that I’ll need
A year long vacation.
Well, what an effort, Acowlytes, for chiming in the year!
Old Rasputin in Heaven must be grinning ear to ear
O’er a hundred comments made, and near a hundred poems composed
I doff my cap to each of you and call the contest…
Closed!
You run a lively little joint here, Revrend.
Thanks fer th BLAST!
Sweet Jesus. Finally.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
I wash my hands of this weirdness.
The ribs can take the relief
After that tricky little thief.
There is no disputin’
the mystique of Rasputin!
Cocked or not!
Bettr get yer fingr in that dike, Revrend.
If it gets to be too big, better stick Rasputin himself in there.